There's No Place Like Holmes
by K.J. Briseis
Summary: Care to learn the true origins of Oz and a few other interesting facts? Then this is the update for you.
1. Auntie Em

_A/N: I really don't know what to say. This is just supposed to be silly. The idea is that Watson was in a terrible mood when he wrote this. That, coupled with the total fantastical nature of the tale is why Doyle never had it published for him._

_Dear Die-Hard Sherlockians: Please remember to give me a Viking Funeral after you kill me for this story! ___

It was early in my involvement in the life of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes from which this tale springs; as so many of our cases and adventures before, aspects of these strange and perception altering events have become only loosely known to the public, consequently elaborated on until the truth has been morphed into a convoluted mythology: many of the details changed dramatically.

I find it is my duty as one present, Doctor John Watson, to tell the facts as they actually occurred; rather than a strange and deluded fantasy. During that particularly uneventful summer, Holmes and I had decided to take a much needed vacation; though I dreamed of a far off, balmy and tropical destination, we had only gotten so far as Brighton when Holmes pitched his tent and swore to go no further.

"From the hotel, we will be able to glimpse the Spanish horizon. Won't that be exotic?" He attempted to placate me, as I grumbled and lifted the bags from the cab. If Brighton had been where we stopped, then it had Brighton he had meant us for the entire journey. In more than a small way, I felt duped.

"Come now, Watson the abundance of mysterious weather reports from the area alone will make it a fascinating stay." He stood, taking in his surroundings in the manner he was prone to. His hands in his back pockets, his vigilant eyes piercing through the icy breeze and spray. It was then known to me that though one could drag Sherlock Holmes on holiday, he would never come quietly. Relaxation was a luxury he would never afford himself or, by association, me.

The hotel we were to inhabit was a pleasant enough place, and certainly up to my standards. (This was key as Holmes himself had no standards. Often during our years and travels together I felt it was most definitely I who had prevented the both of us spending long nights in rain barrels. On the occasion Holmes was left to his own lodging, I recall tales of him sleeping in bales of hay and once in the pantry of a local establishment of a tarnished reputation.) As breakfast arrived, my companion finally revealed himself at our table.

"Morning Holmes. I say, old man, you don't look well rested at all!" I blurted, immediately regretting it, but his appearance was less than glorious. Where his hair was usually expertly combed, several strands were escaping any standard of style; the eyes that normally shone with expert lucidity had become redden and drawn; his tie was sloppy and his shoulders slouched.

"It was not a good night, Watson. I am loathe to sleep on a bed that is not mine, especially when the sheets are washed in foreign water," I would, myself, be reluctant to deem a three hour distance 'foreign'. He continued, "ordinarily, my cure for insomnia would be the dulcet tones of my beloved Stradivarius; however, it has been left at Baker Street by your request, and would not do well at three o'clock in the morning in a hotel besides." Holmes then rather snappishly ordered his toast to be crisp from a passing waitress and rubbed his fingers to his temples as he continued the woeful tale of the previous night.

"It was at a point a quarter past the hour suggested that I decided my only course of action would be to build a replica of Parliament out of forks. I feel it went well."

I glanced at my cutlery and noticed a distinct absence of a particular utensil.

"Holmes…"

"I know Watson, but no one was awake and there was no way to know how many I needed, so I merely grabbed my pillow cover and filled it with as many as it could carry. This turned out to be all of them. In a strange way, fate had smiled upon me." He must have seen some show of concern on my face, for next he said:

"Don't worry, Watson. I just get a little odd when I've nothing to do." I surely didn't have the heart to tell him then that he was plenty odd when he did have something to do.

"How did you sleep?" He asked considerately.

"Fine, pillow was a bit hard."

"Did you complain to the desk?"

"Yes."

"Good man."

I spent the rest of the morning perusing the shops for a suitable souvenir for our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, while Holmes enquired after odd weather trends. It seemed a compulsive triviality, as though the man could not go any longer than a day and a half without interrogating someone.

"Watson!" Came his sharp and unmistakable voice as I left an over-priced antique shop.

"There you are Holmes; I'm having a devil of a time finding a reasonable charge for goods…" I began, but he cut me off abruptly.

"Of course you are. It is a tourist trap at the height of season. Ghostly empty due to the abundance of remarkably unwelcoming weather, resulting in even more dramatic price gauging. Now then, what is the weather like right now?"

It was all I could do to stand and blink at him, he was outside in the weather with me, after all.

"Well, Holmes…" I tried not to sound too patronizing, but I am rather afraid that is how I came off, "you will notice that the sky is grey instead of blue. That is called 'cloudy' and no doubt means that we will see rain by this afternoon…"

"Very good Watson. I commend your patience with me. Do you, by chance, notice that there is no rain at all, though? Very little moisture in the air considering our seaside location? And now…" A fork of lighting flashed behind him, like a purple vein in the sky, "a dramatic electrical storm has begun?"

"Fascinating. Your conclusion?"

"That we should get inside promptly, as we neither have thought to bring umbrellas this morning." He smiled thinly and began a brisk walk back to our hotel.

Unfortunately, the rain began almost immediately after, in a torrent of near hail. By our luck, an old woman saw us hastening and called from her window.

"Gentlemen, hurry in here! You'll be chilled to the bone!" She quickly to rushed to her door and ushered us inside.

"Ah. Thank you madam. Most kind." Holmes panted; he was fitter than he appeared but the man, quite frankly, smoked like a chimney.

"I am Dr. Watson, and this is Mr. Holmes. I do hope we are not intruding…"

"Oh, heavens no!" The old woman beamed, "Most people call me Auntie Em. I feel quite honoured two fine gentlemen such as yourselves would be in my home, even if it is only to keep dry."

"Had you invited us in finer weather, madam, we would not have declined." Holmes added in his usual charming way and removed his hat and coat as I did the same.

Over conversation with the woman, it was revealed - as Holmes no doubt already suspected - that 'Auntie Em' was a street name she had earned many years ago, and that the life and blood of every tourist destination was cheating people out of their money. Most establishments would find legal ways of doing this, but often the poorer citizens of these towns would step outside of the law. Holmes found this fascinating, I heartbreaking.

It was at this point the eerie stillness returned outside; Holmes stood up and peered out of the window.

"Ah. That is slightly alarming." He confessed, immediately I dashed over to see what it was. Holmes never expressed fear, and I thought I might be able to lord it over him if it was something good – like a large spider or a French mime. Unfortunately for my nerves, it was neither.

A large gust of wind was twirling in a cone shape and tearing up pieces of the street as it moved in a seemingly purposeful path. I had read of such things but never seen one. To the best of my judgment this was a cyclone; and it was coming straight for us.

"Do you think this will hurt, Holmes?"

"Most definitely, Watson."

The next thing I can clearly remember is waking up in that same living room, what must have been several hours later to Holmes' searching call:

"Auntie Em? Auntie Em?"

"Holmes…?" I sputtered, sitting up. A hole in the building somewhere on the second story was letting in the most ghastly bright sunlight down the stairs and dust was just about everywhere.

My companion headed towards the door and flung it open, revealing even more of the obnoxious light.

"Watson, I don't believe we are in Brighton any longer."

We two stepped from the mason derelict into what appeared to be a completely different world, full of the greenest grass and bluest sky. As I openly gawked at our new surroundings, the ever vigilant Holmes merely scoffed in annoyance.

"What is this place?" I mused, more to myself than him.

"It would appear to be a manufactured paradise, Watson, some sort of gated community. Judging from the size of the footprints near that rainbow's end, I'd say we're dealing with children… or perhaps orangutans in shoes."

At this, I felt obligated to roll my eyes:

"Or midgets, Holmes. Do you think it could possibly be midgets?" I confess that my tone was less than forgiving.

"Oh, yes of course. Damn it. Why don't I ever think of midgets anymore?" He continued to mumble to himself as he surveyed the eerie rainbow. It was at this point I turned around to be greeted by quite the ghastly sight, a pair of pointed black shoes seemingly worn by someone trapped beneath the house. (My immediate reaction was an expletive that shall not be transcribed here; however, I find it imperative to point out that it was a remarkable shock.)

"Holmes! There's a dead witch under the house!"

"Wrong Watson! There is a dead witch sloppily shoved into the cellar!" Holmes strode over to the morbid scene and lifted a creaky door off of the corpse, who was hanging by her knees from the threshold.

"We have two options," he said with a sigh of conviction, "we can push her into the cellar properly or find her murderer."

"I know your views and you know mine."

"Indeed I do, Watson. However, I am taller ergo my way is best; we shall investigate this crime!"

Our first step was to try and establish the identity of the victim, with much care not to disturb too much of anything, we lifted the body onto a nearby over-sized toadstool and sat down for a good think.


	2. Glinda

"She does remind one of a witch, the sort from the German fairy tales. Don't you think Holmes?" I considered the appearance of our victim. Her skin was of a green pallor, her hair long and dark, and a large wart protruded from her rather prominent nose.

Her costume was of interest as well for she wore a tattered looking black dress, candy-striped stockings, and plain black shoes that curled at the toe. Unforgettable that her shoes were styled thusly, as it was the ghastly sight of those dangling legs that I think shall always mark my memories of these irregular events.

"Holmes?" I looked about the vivid and intriguing landscape, "I say, Holmes! Where the devil have you got to?"

"I'm up here, Watson. In the gumdrop tree." And so he was, his thin frame balanced precariously on the edge of a massive green leaf that looked to be made of coloured icing. The flora of the area was marked with a singular peculiarity of yielding various sweets and candies in the place of fruit. I found this instantly repugnant, and was uncertain whether any of it was edible. It surely would not have been a wise move to taste some and find out.

"Get out of that tree before you break your neck!" I barked forcefully at Holmes. This was no time for him to begin scampering around like a capuchin monkey.

"My neck is mine to break, Watson. You are not the boss of me!" He waved his left hand dismissively and leapt down from the sugary branch to land beside me with a resounding and curiously metallic thud. We both immediately began to observe the ground, our eyebrows arched in suspicion.

"Do you think we ought to start digging?" I enquired of Holmes, noting that his eyes now darted from the tree to the house.

"It is all very curious. The house for one, Watson. Observe the way it is tilted, just so; and though we are meant to believe it to be the home of Auntie Em, it is not. This can be verified by the exterior."

"My word, Holmes, whatever do you mean?"

"The paint. It is entirely dissimilar, save the shade of blue. It saddens me that though someone put an obviously strenuous amount of effort into creating this place, they did not see to the little things." Holmes sneered, stepped close to the partially collapsed building and clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

"Yes, but what of the ground, man!"

"The ground is but another sign pointing towards…" But before he could finish, we were rudely interrupted by the most bizarre sight to yet befall us.

Descending from the sky was a luminous pink orb, seemingly as dainty and easily destroyed as a flower petal. As it came more fully into the line of our vision, we were able to discern that a young woman, of some extraordinary loveliness, stood within. Reminiscent of a reflection caught in a gypsy's crystal ball.

To the dismay of both myself and Holmes, a loud twinkling noise overtook our ears. It was very much as though someone had knocked about an enormous set of wind chimes within one's head. This was coupled with an abrasive flash of pink light, which had, somewhat cruelly, caught us two off guard.

"Oh! Ye-eww! It's so bright! Ah!" Holmes groaned. I was merely relieved that I was not blind.

Once our eyesight had come back into focus, and the little fuzzy black dots went away, we were able to recognize the woman who had seemingly appeared trapped in the candy-floss bubble. She stood right before us now, in a very peculiarly styled gown more reminiscent of medieval poetry than of modern fashions. The crown alone made her look like a wayward chess piece, but she had a very kindly face and the most enchanting copper tones to her elaborately waved hair. Her pleasant appearance successfully distracted me from the fact that she had floated down through the sky.

"Follow your heart, that all your dreams may come true!" She said, almost as though she were supposed to sing the words. The cheerful sentiment caused a smile to mark my own lips, but when I turned to Holmes he looked decidedly less pleased with matters.

"My dear girl," Holmes began, "I trust you will purport to know exactly where we are?"

"Oh, but of course! We are in Oz!" The young lady exclaimed with much joy and compassion in her voice. It was then that I noticed the curious staff she had been using to punctuate her exclamations. Topped with a glittering silver star, it was almost as tall as she. Whatever could it be for, and why on earth was she just carrying it around?

"And where would Oz be?" Holmes spat the name of the place as though he were a cobra snapping to strike.

"Why, Oz is a fairy kingdom, Mr. Holmes…"

"I never told you my name. Do not have me believe that the renown of London consulting detectives has extended its way to the mystical lands of Hallucination." He seemed to be growing somewhat enraged, and though I was in no grand state myself, I hardly thought it appropriate to take it out on the young lady.

"Come now, Holmes. Let's not berate the poor girl." I said.

"Very well, Watson. Perhaps she would like to tell us more about what's going on? Miss…"

"I am Glinda! The Good Witch of the North!" She smiled with a twinkle of a laugh afterwards.

"Watson, could I speak with you behind the rainbow for a moment?"

"Yes of course. Excuse us, my dear." I said cordially. Miss Glinda watched with noticeable concern on her face as Holmes took me aside. One could tell immediately that he was edging nearer and nearer to his negative temper.

"I've only had two hours sleep. From what I've observed by climbing the gumdrop tree, this place – whatever it may be – goes for miles. There appears to be a massive collection of green buildings in the direction of this saffron-coloured path. We have a dead witch and a good witch, and I don't believe either of them are witches, Watson. I mean, come on! Miss Glinda clearly does not hail from the north! You only have to be offhandedly familiar with regional dialects to piece that one together!"

"Calm down, she might hear you…"

"No! This is madness and foolishness! I do not believe in witches!"

"Is this why we're over here? So that you can shout at me?" I stared at Holmes vituperatively for a long while. He was right about the foolishness - if I could get through any of this with my wits about me, he certainly had nothing to complain about. The bitter silence seemed to do us both a world of good, and though we had been thoroughly childish to one another, an unspoken agreement arose from the conflict. We would do our best to stay sane amidst the insane.

"I do apologise. It just strikes me as a cruel and underhanded blow to this investigation that nothing in this godforsaken place has the laws of rationality attached to it. Nonetheless, you and I shall persevere and find not only a way out of this deranged and nightmarish fantasy land, but see the murderer of the First Witch behind bars!"

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_A/N: Woo-hoo! Go get that sinister madman, Holmes! _

_Okey-Dokey. If you like it then let me know. Also let me know why and what sorts of things you want me to include. I may or may not do so._

_Thank You So Much for Reading!_

_P.S: Remember about the Viking Funeral - just in case the Wizard of Oz people come looking for me with torches…_


	3. Munchkins

_A/N: Keep your eyes peeled, kids! A couple of juicy clues pop up in this chapter!_

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For the time being, we would humour Miss Glinda and do our best not to be alarmist. However, I could see instantly that Holmes was thirsting to know what details she was attentive to. Undoubtedly, I was curious as to how she had to come to be in so strange a place, and could not help my thoughts from wandering back to her unusual scepter.

"Miss Glinda, perhaps you would be kind enough to provide Dr. Watson and myself with some further information? I assure you, it is of the utmost importance." Holmes said smoothly. It was well in his nature to easily remove himself from the emotions of moments before, and it would seem that northern witches did nothing to hinder this.

"Why, Mr. Holmes! There is so much for you to discover in Oz! Any questions you ask me would never do our kingdom the justice of seeing it!" Miss Glinda had a very delightful way about her; in so much as she never seemed to stop intoning her voice with grandeur. Every word that fell from her lips was meant to be more splendid than the last.

"How terribly patriotic of you. My questions do, however, refer to a radius of no more than thirty feet. Pertaining specifically to the recent death of the young woman on the toadstool," Holmes somewhat unceremoniously motioned towards the ghastly corpse with his thumb, "You have, no doubt, already noticed her presence."

"Oh my, of course! That is – was – the Wicked Witch of the East! You must have killed her when the house dropped down! Don't feel too badly, though. I am absolutely positive the Munchkins will be pleased." Here, Miss Glinda began to look at a lower line of sight, tilting her head to peer around the shadows.

"Come out, come out," she cooed in the direction of the bushes, "there's no need to be afraid of Mr. Holmes and his friend."

From various hiding spots, unseen nooks and crannies amidst the sugared foliage, emerged what would be known to us as the Munchkins. A Quaint people of diminutive stature; rather like a well-grown child of ten or so in height. They wore bright and multicoloured outfits, favouring mostly a distinctive shade of blue.

Upon revealing themselves, the vibrant troupe seemed to organize themselves by caste. The upper echelon standing to the audient side of Holmes, Miss Glinda and myself, seeming to expect some category of ceremony. Their leader, made obvious by a particular abundance of the aforementioned blue, took a step forward.

"Boq, these gentlemen have killed the Wicked Witch!" Miss Glinda smiled brightly. I recall feeling briefly appalled with the bright and cheerful mood the girl had taken towards an apparent homicide. This was immediately compounded by her insistence that Holmes and I were somehow responsible.

"Hooray!" The Munchkins called in chorus, throwing their hats in the air and immediately engaging in rowdy celebration. They sang songs and joined hands, spinning in a ring-around-the-rosie, some even climbed about the candy trees with tankards of lager. Holmes and I stood amidst this, as Miss Glinda nodded her head side to side releasing the occasional giggle at the merriment.

"Ding-Dong the Witch is dead!" Their exultant chant went - a disturbing _memento mori_ sung like a child's nursery rhyme.

"Cease and desist this hideous Danse Macabre immediately!" Holmes projected with ease of a seasoned actor, and all at once the little men froze mid-action to stare at him.

"But Glinda! You said we had nothing to fear of these men!" The one known as Boq cried with much panic marking his face and voice. I felt slightly compelled to tell the Munchkins that Holmes was probably more troubled by them than they by him.

"Of course there is no reason to fear them! I simply must have forgotten to tell silly Mr. Holmes that he had killed a _wicked_ witch…"

"No, Miss Glinda, you did not forget to mention that incredibly relevant tidbit," Holmes rolled his eyes, "You have also championed your theory that Watson and I had some sinister role to play in all of this."

Here, Holmes paused and began checking his pockets for something. The Munchkins and Miss Glinda stood in awed silence at this tall, imposing fellow; his icy eccentricities far more intimidating than they were able to cope with.

"My pipe, Watson! Gone! Tell me, do you have a cigarette?"

"I'm afraid not Holmes…" I confessed tentatively, after searching my own clothing. After close examination, it was discovered that all of my pocketed belongings were missing. Including my Eley's No. 2 revolver.

"Damn! How I hate this blasted Oz!" Holmes swore loudly, stomping his foot. It was this juvenile display of frustration that, through shaking the apparently artificial ground, caused a much larger vibration than expected. Extending so far as the toadstool where we had carefully placed the First Witch.

The body slumped to the floor, causing the right hand to jostle and reveal that the victim was gripping an object of some considerable size. Holmes quickly dropped to his knees and, with refined precision, carefully opened the rest of the hand.

"Miss Glinda…" Holmes called, standing back up and turning towards the young lady, "Have you ever seen this before?" He held before him a cabochon-cut ruby no smaller than a ripe plum. A truly impressive gem, shockingly opaque though glinting with an almost perfect asterism; it had been set in an ornately carved silver cone that looked to have been detached from something.

"Why! It's the ruby from the Ruby Walking Stick!" Miss Glinda answered, clasping her hands together joyously as the Munchkins cheered.

"Stop that." Holmes instructed the crowd harshly.

"You will have to keep that, Mr. Holmes. As a reward for landing your house on the Wicked Witch! The rest of the stick is bound to be around here somewhere!" She indicated the vicinity with her star-topped scepter.

"Neither myself nor Watson had any role to play in this poor creature's existence prior to the discovery of her corpse! How often have we told you this! The victim was killed by a means completely separate of being crushed. Her death was obviously due to compression of the larynx as well as the carotid arteries and jugular veins; causing both asphyxiation and cerebral ischemia. In other words - strangulation. Watson, you will no doubt note upon closer examination that the hyoid remains unfractured. Curious, wouldn't you say?"

"Most curious, Holmes."

"Oh! Why, I never! You're confusing the Munchkins something awful, Mr. Holmes!" Miss Glinda protested.

"Then perhaps the Munchkins ought to reform their education system. Furthermore, the fact that you would have Watson and I be made to think that this house crashed down from the sky is utterly preposterous and we shall hear no more of that nonsense. Is this understood?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes." It was then that Miss Glinda became an entirely different reflection of herself, as her formerly smiling countenance withdrew into melancholy and her eyes glistened with tears. The Munchkins grew instantly dismayed with her amendment of expression and all at once the whole congregation began to weep loudly.

I escorted Miss Glinda to the stoop of the fallen house, where we then sat down. I produced my handkerchief for her, and attempted to comfort the poor girl. Holmes had taken to being monstrously harsh to both her and the little Munchkins, though I could understand why. He was not the sort to bend to fairy stories, and the constant demand on him to quiet his practical and scientific mind was causing him to be irritable. Not to mention extremely bad-mannered.

"Is this rest of the stick?" His voice called from down in the cellar.

Miss Glinda rose quickly, dabbing her checks and hurriedly smoothing her voluminous salmon-pink skirt. She and I both headed towards the open cellar doors, and looked own to see Holmes holding a narrow black cane with a silver claw on the bottom.

"Yes, yes! There it is! Oh, do put the ruby on top Mr. Holmes!" Miss Glinda begged, seeming to be well or her way back to her cheerful disposition.

"Why?" Holmes enquired of her, hoisting himself up to ground level with a somewhat brusque display of acrobatics.

"Oh, you are being so difficult, Mr. Holmes…" Miss Glinda sobbed, wringing my handkerchief between her elegantly feminine hands.

"Just put the ruby back on the stick, Holmes!" I demanded.

"Very well," he conceded, and reattached the stone. "I was merely curious as to why she was being so insistent. I had no intention of making her visibly upset."

"Dr. Watson, you must make certain that you and Mr. Holmes have the Ruby Walking Stick with you at all times while you are in Oz! Keep it tight to you!" Miss Glinda begged of me, clutching my jacket lapels with the desperation of the truly frightened.

"Certainly, my dear, but whatever for? It seems such a gaudy trinket to carry around, and besides which, Mr. Holmes and I intend to get back to Brighton as soon as possible…"

"Oh, you must carry it with you, Doctor! You must, you must!"

"Now, now Miss Glinda," Holmes soothed in a strictly calculated manner, "there is no need for you to work yourself up so much. Perhaps if you were to calmly tell both myself and Watson everything you know…"

"I can't! If you want to know more - you'll have to go and see the great Wizard of Oz!"

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_A/N: I had to change the slippers to something a little more masculine, and I'm intending to use the Ruby Walking Stick as a heavily plot-relevant accessory. Even more so than the brilliant deus ex machina of Dorothy's shoes._


	4. The Yellow Brick Road

"Who is this Wizard of Oz?" Holmes enquired of Miss Glinda, as he glanced down the length of his nose at the distinctive Saffron Path. It was, by its own measure, a most inimitable thing; warping inwards to a tight curl, not unlike the spiral shape that typifies a nautilus shell. It was paved in bricks dyed a most shockingly deep yellow – hence Holmes's name for the road.

"The Wizard is the ruler of the Emerald City, which lies at the end of this road. He can answer all of your questions, Mr. Holmes. And he can help you get back to Brighton, Dr. Watson! But you must go quickly!"

"Why the rush, Miss Glinda? Surely the 'Emerald City' is not moving in the near future…" Holmes once more tried to pry any detail he could from the lady; searching for clues to the First Witch and Oz in general. I wondered what his mind had already concluded towards all we had been through. For, though I am certainly no doddering fool, I could make neither front nor back of the place.

"Oh, I am so afraid that the Wicked Witch of the West will get to you!"

"Somebody already strangled her, didn't they?"

"That was the Wicked Witch of the _East_. Do try and keep up, Watson." Holmes corrected me.

"She's just awful! And so very dangerous! Why, I wouldn't be surprised one bit if she had strangled her own sister just for the Ruby Walking Stick!" Miss Glinda whispered with the tones of one imparting some new, sensationalist gossip.

"Her sister?" Holmes clarified.

"Yes. The Wicked Witch of the West and the Wicked Witch of the East are sisters. That is a very special ruby, Mr. Holmes. I fear that many people would do terrible things for it, and that many people already have. All the secrets of Oz lie in that Walking Stick, and only one man knows the key to unlocking them." Miss Glinda added cryptically.

"Very well then, Holmes. I imagine we're off to see the Wizard." I turned to my companion, and noticed straight away the sharp and wintry change of features that signaled the cogs in his mighty mind beginning to work something over.

"Yes of course, Watson… To the Wizard we go..." He responded, seeming so far away in his newly begun deductions, that I dare not let a breeze rustle the gumdrops in the trees for fear of breaking his concentration.

It was here that Miss Glinda did a most unexpected thing by planting a soft kiss on my right cheek.

"No one in all of Oz may harm those who have the mark of my kisses, Doctor. It shall protect you from the stranger things to come." She explained.

"Well, then. That's very kind of you Miss Glinda." Though I wished that I could think of more to say, the sheer strangeness of all things prevented me from being more cordial and responsive.

"Now, you and Mr. Holmes can delay no longer. You must get to the Emerald City, and you must see the Wizard! And remember that there is nothing so important as that Ruby!"

Here Miss Glinda led Holmes and myself partially down the start of the Saffron Path. She and the many Munchkins waved us off as we began to make our way to the Emerald City.

"Odd name, don't you think?" Holmes said, after I had finished waving my goodbyes in return.

"Whose is?" I demanded of him sharply, as I had suddenly acquired a fondness for the name Glinda.

"Munchkin." He replied to my great relief, "One presumes quite easily that it takes it origins from Münich Kindl; meaning Munich Child and being the coat of arms of that particular Bavarian city. Given that the Munchkins are quite naturally small in physique and that the traditional depiction of the Münich Kindl is of a child dressed in a thirteenth century monk's robes, I find it highly probably that their name was derived from this source. Perhaps we will find that this Wizard is of a decidedly Germanic heritage. If so, this will narrow down the possibilities of his identity to a simple art."

"Whatever are you on about? How will any of that help you deduce the identity of this Wizard fellow?"

"It's elementary, Watson. There are very few individuals in Europe who would be able to afford so elaborate a farce as this 'Fairy Kingdom'. I have told you once before that life can be infinitely stranger than anything the mind of man was capable of inventing - now we see the extent of man. For though our present surroundings are, indeed, the strangest setting we have ever encountered, they are most assuredly the device of some sick mind. Some sick, exceedingly wealthy, potentially Bavarian mind…"

He gazed darkly upon the threshold of Oz, visible now upon cresting a hill that marked the boundaries of the small Munchkin village. Before us lay cornfields, forest and flower gardens; but beyond it all, jutting from the ground like raw and uncut riches glimmered what was – what must have been – the Emerald City.

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_A/N: Firstly, thanks so much to those of you who __are following this bizarre adventure. It's nice to feel like somebody else is laughing at these jokes…_

_Secondly, if you haven't reviewed and __you've read to this point in the story: Why haven't you told me what you think? Flowers need love and encouragement to grow. I don't bite, and I'm terribly desperate to know the opinions of others! Even if it's criticism or good-natured disapproval!_

_On a note regarding the content of today's chapter, in specific the kiss…_

_Nah. I'll let you make up your own minds on that one for now. If you have any _real _problems with it, drop me a line and I'll spill the beans in advance._

_Thanks for reading!_


	5. Scarecrow

_A/N: When I did my customary re-read over the previous chapter, I found that it was almost slap-dash and by far the shortest one I had yet produced. Then at the end I begged for reviews like a Dickensian orphan…_

_Oh the shame! The shame!_

_At any rate, I __apologise__ and hope that this finds you better. One day, I'll go back and fix Chapter Four._

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"Holmes…" I began tentatively, for I had no desire to disrupt his thinking. We had been walking for some ways in the direction of the cornfield, the Munchkin village now fading into the distance behind us.

"Yes, what is it, Watson?" He sighed. His shoulders slouched forward and he had thrust his hands quite deeply into his pockets. The Ruby Walking Stick had been transferred to my possession almost immediately after our discussion regarding his proposed etymology of the term 'Munchkin'. Much to my discomfort, the strains of the day had marked themselves quite harshly on my old leg wound, and I had been relying quite heavily on the artifact – despite it's being a key piece of evidence.

"Do you imagine it was the right thing for us to do, leaving the scene of the crime like that?" I asked, though I knew full well that he would answer in the affirmative. Holmes was not a man who did things groundlessly or without forethought.

"I'm not at all certain, my dear fellow. This entire incident has me somewhat at a loss, and though we persevere, I cannot tell you with any confidence that I know what we are doing. Nor can I tell you much more as to why we are doing it, only that justice must take its place for that woman's death and it is up to you and I to find whose head it shall rest upon." He became drawn then, and I could tell at once that the burdens of Oz were taking their toll.

This had not been the answer I hoped for, and so I became somewhat drawn myself. Walking steadily in silence.

Tiredness had fallen upon us, for we made our way only inches towards this Emerald City. It was a tiredness that weighed our lungs down with the suffocation of a heavy fog, not unlike those that come about the city of London in the late stages of autumn. Oh, how I yearned to be back in that great city! How I regretted ever leaving it! How I vowed never to vacation to a seaside resort ever, ever again!

Holmes seemed to be mirroring my own line of thinking, for he next said to me:

"Where do you imagine that sky ends, Watson?"

"That was very poetic of you, Holmes."

"No, no. Though I do thank you for the compliment. I meant, in fact, if you were able to discern where the edges of this sky come into contact with the ground. Where is the nearest point of horizon?"

"I'm not certain I can see any manifestation of horizon. But what has that got to do with anything?" I grumbled the latter sentence, for a sharp pain had flared up in my leg. Holmes took no notice of my sour demeanour.

"Only a fleeting interest of mine, old fellow. I merely supposed that if either you or I could see the line of scope, we might be able to find the edge of this fabricated country and free ourselves from this waffle and nonsense…"

Here he paused, closed his eyes and permitted himself a sharp and deep intake of breath.

"And yet… It calls so to be rationalized. I am conflicted, Watson. As a dog who barks at a butterfly. Does he chase? Flee? Or merely continue to growl at the air, long after the insect has departed?" Holmes was not prone to analogies that placed him in the same league as a basset hound. I wrote it off to his lack of sleep and tobacco.

"Perhaps the best we can do is to keep on this path." I tried to comfort him. Though, in truth, I felt even less certain about things than he. For I had begun to open my mind to the possibility of an actual Fairy Kingdom, regardless of all natural instinct to completely rule out the notion.

Again, we shuffled forward in pensive silence until:

"Oh! That is just mean-spirited!" Holmes shouted, pointing angrily at an effigy both humorous and ghastly.

It was in the midst of the large cornfield that the Saffron Path split in twain, the crossroads yielding a space between the two forks. The gap was marked with two things, the first being a road sign most unusual in its makeup, the second was the object of Holmes's sudden burst of rage.

The sign was compromised of two plain board arrows, one pointing in each direction. The arrow indicating the left read 'That Way is a Very Nice Way' in blue lettering. The arrow indicating the right read 'Down That Way is Pleasant, Too' in red lettering. And, sat behind the directions was a scarecrow of some distinctly ill humour.

It was standing up by means of garden pole and was nearly as tall as Holmes himself - just over six feet, if my eye took it in correctly. This was not the only thing it had in common with my friend, for it seemed to be styled after him in a rather stereotypical fashion. The plain white canvas face was marked by the singular feature of an aquiline nose, and it had been dressed in the clothing that typified the man of our day – save for the deerstalker atop the scarecrow's head.

Such a figure would have been solely a point of broad humour for Holmes, as he was at this time still quite amused to be caricatured with that inaccuracy. However, there had been a card of some highly wrought and opulent embellishment that had been pinned to the scarecrow's chest.

"Brainless!" Holmes read it aloud with virulent disgust, "Imagine the idiocy behind this, Watson! The sheer darkness of human nature to declare me – ME – of being without a brain! Absolutely preposterous!"

He fumed, and stared hatefully at the portrayal. Almost as though he were trying to melt it with the pupils of his eyes. Without hesitation, he removed his jacket and approached the scarecrow.

"You are in no way an accurate depiction, Mr. Scarecrow!" Holmes bellowed and began the process of tearing the thing down, "Come and lend a hand, Watson!"

"I'm sure it's the sort of thing that's only meant to be comical…" It was in my best interest to calm him down, for we would most likely need all of his energies in tact if we were to make our destination with any sort of speed.

"Ah! Perhaps I would have seen the joke better if I had a brain!" Holmes sniped, and from the force of resistance on the garden pole knocked himself backwards several steps. He disappeared behind the corn and there was stillness.

"Holmes?" I called tentatively, for the only thing I could then hear was the distant chirping of birds. There was no answer.

"I say, Holmes! Holmes!" I took several steps towards the corn when his head appeared suddenly from amidst the endless sea of vegetables.

"What are you shouting about, Watson?" Here he emerged fully pulling with him a wooden wheelbarrow, empty save a few leaves from the corn plants.

Holmes then returned to his earlier task of pulling down the scarecrow.

"Don't just stand there, Watson. Help me get this blasted thing into that wheelbarrow!"

"Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'? So that we can bring it along with us to see this Wizard!" Holmes exclaimed, and though I still remained uncertain as to his thinking I began to help him.

"I don't mean to make myself any sort of a nuisance with all of these questions, but why do you wish to take it with us? It's obvious you hate it. Bringing it along will only serve to put you in an even more wretched state, and that is far from ideal."

"Watson, I am being petty. I have no desire to play this childish game of name-calling, and so feel that if we bring this utterly ridiculous object along we shall prove something of ourselves. I imagine that the Wizard will feel a creeping self-loathing as he sees me standing tall besides this most insipid stunt…" Holmes explained as we heaved the scarecrow into the wheelbarrow.

"I don't see your thinking here at all, Holmes."

"That's because it wasn't a scarecrow of you! I want to show this madman that I shall not be bullied, nor that he can bruise my ego with such trivialities!" He sighed, and I felt certain that his ego was indeed bruised, and that dwelling on the incident would not do his mental state any good.

"Who knows, my friend," he patted the scarecrow, "perhaps if you play your cards right, they'll be able to fix you up with a Cambridge education."

"Ha! A scarecrow with a diploma! How utterly farcical!"


	6. Tin Man

_A/N: __Sorry I took longer than normal. I have a bad cold. :(_

_I stole VHunter07's __idea. I liked the imagery, and so expanded on it a little bit. But -See! See! This why you should review, because I write and update (almost) everyday! This whole story has been hot off the presses whenever I have a minute, so there! It totally makes sense to let me know your opinions. _

_Okey-Dokey. I bet you're all waiting for me to shut-up and get to the Tin Man._

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With some ferocity and purpose of intent, Sherlock Holmes struck onward. His eyes glued to the destination of the Saffron Path, the wheels of his cart squeaking loudly. The sharp pain in my leg grew fiery, and I grew unable to ignore it.

"Holmes! Slow down!" I called as I struggled to keep up. The Ruby Walking Stick clicked frantically against the yellow bricks, marking my fraught and hopeless haste. My friend's head snapped to my direction, and all at once his features removed themselves from obsession and grew somewhat sympathetic and remorseful. We stopped then, and I was able to sit myself upon the stump of a recently chopped down tree.

"I do fear that the air of this place is getting to me, Watson." Holmes murmured, almost as if he were talking to himself. He then climbed into our wheelbarrow and sat next to the scarecrow, looking at the object with some dismay.

"Your nose really isn't that impressive. Though, I must admit, I fear taking you to any exhibition of Roman statuary. Lest we loose you amidst the busts."

"What a cruel thing to say to someone, Watson!" Holmes clutched his heart dramatically, though beneath his display one could hear the tones of his sniggering laugh. "How well are you walking? Shall we stay the afternoon on the edge of this wood?"

"No, no. I shall be alright after a moment or two. Besides which, there is nothing I want more than to get out of here and back to our rooms on Baker Street…" I hesitated to share all that had been on my mind, but nonetheless felt obliged to discuss the situation with him. "What do you make of this Emerald City, old chap? I read once about a Chinese emperor who used to have his jewels turned into a powder so that he might drink them every morning. I believe it was said that he was striving for immortality, but the powders drove him quite mad. Perhaps the Wizard used emeralds to build his city, and in so doing released a similar dust into the air. It would explain why everyone has been acting so peculiar…"

"I don't know what you've been reading, Watson, but it sounds fascinating." Holmes replied off-handedly, resting himself so that his legs draped over the side of the cart and he laid his head upon the scarecrow's chest as one would lie upon a pillow. "Wake me when you would like to get moving again."

On any other occasion, I would have felt like a complete fool proposing that a stone so rare as an emerald had been used in architectural purposes; but the very existence of the enormous ruby that had been thrust into my care gave me strange new outlooks on the potential eccentricities of Oz. Such inordinate amounts of wealth had gone into its creation, such mania and passion that I would be surprised by nothing save the fact that its owner and creator had not gone bankrupt.

A soft breeze swept over us from the direction of the cornfield, a breeze both cool and welcome. I was grateful for this, as there was something terribly oppressive about the large golden sun that hung above us.

"Watson!" Holmes whispered sharply as he bolted upright, "Do you hear that sound?"

"What sound?"

"Shhh!" Sure enough, there was a soft low whistle to the likeness of someone exhaling upon a lead pipe.

"Whatever could it be?" I mused aloud as Holmes once more took up the handles of his wheelbarrow.

We walked someway into the woods, allowing our ears to guide us, when we came to another depiction of the human form. Only this time it was nothing to look like anyone specific, so much as I could discern.

"My word! An automaton!" Holmes marveled, circling the silent and metallic gentleman. "It appears to be made mostly of tin, which is an excellent material for such a gadget. It's intended to be a further advancement of the marvelous Steam Man – created in '65 by one John Brainerd. Oh, dear. It appears some fool has made its joints from iron. The steam it produces has caused it to become quite rusted…"

"Here, Holmes! You're not proposing that this is anything more than a statue!" I couldn't believe what excitement he was investing into the object. It stood several inches shorter than myself, its body lean and narrow save a chest that at once reminded one of a cylindrical stove or water tank. The joints were indeed quite rusted, and connected the limbs to the body much like the gaps in a suit of armour.

"Indeed I am, Watson! He is to be like a grand clockwork man, the type one finds in championed often as a marvel of technology. The advancement of such things is the obsession of the brilliant inventor Rudiger Ozma, a man who devotes his life entirely to science. Notable for his lunatic idiosyncrasies and financial genius. Born in Munich."

"The Wizard!" I gasped, and observed the mechanical man more closely.

"Precisely, Watson!" Holmes smiled broadly, inspecting every detail of the Tin Man. "Really quite marvelous…"

"But what would this Ozma chap want with you, Holmes?" I wondered, taking my turn to examine the mechanical being.

"No doubt a facet of the mystery that will become as clear as crystal, or perhaps diamond, once we reach the Emerald City." Holmes tapped the chest of the Tin Man with the knuckle of his index finger.

"Aha-ha-ha!" He exclaimed as he opened a small panel on the Tin Man's back. "Oil can!"

"Oil can what?"

"Don't be childish. There is an oil can here," here he held it out demonstratively, "there also seems to be a set of instructions. Perhaps we can get him up and running!"

"Why? I'll let you tote a scarecrow around with us, but I must draw the lines somewhere…"

"What's wrong with you? You don't want to see the future of science spring to life before your very eyes? That's sad, Watson. Have you no heart?" Holmes pouted as he oiled the Tin Man's joints. All at once I felt certain that the wrong member of our duo was being referred to as childish.

"I'll have you know that I am sentimental to a fault! Let's fire this tuna can up!" I conceded, rolling up my sleeves and preparing to begin whatever work was necessary.

**Directions for Use**:

For Walking and Action – Wind beneath the left arm (marked No. 1)

For Thought and Speech – Wind beneath the right arm (marked No.2)

"How lucky that they are numbered! Now the Scarecrow and I won't have to bother remembering which way is left!" Holmes grumbled, still wounded from earlier inferences.

"Holmes… it says 'Thought and Speech'! Do you really think an invention of this sort is capable of reasoning?" I marveled, staring at the directions.

"Only to a very limited degree, I would imagine. But, alas, we learn more so every moment that nothing is too incredible. Our best course of action remains to attempt to start the mechanisms and see how it operates." Holmes shrugged, lifting the device's right arm and winding the small key that lay beneath it.

In quick response, I took it upon myself to wind the left key in syncopation. At first there was a great deal of pressure required for a single turn, but soon the keys turned almost effortlessly. A sound arose like the whistle of tea kettle, and an enormous cloud of steam overtook my vision.

"Is it working, Holmes?" I spluttered.

"Blast! I can't see a damned thing!" He cursed.

We took several steps back, grateful to be out of the massive clouds of vapor the Tin Man had produced. Leaning against the wheelbarrow, Holmes and I wiped our brows with our handkerchiefs, somewhat defeated.

"It didn't work." I jokingly informed our scarecrow, whose head slumped to his shoulder – as though he were looking at something strange in the direction of the automaton.

"By Jove! Watson! Look!" Holmes cried, and I turned to see the Tin Man. A true marvel of science.

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_True and __Interesting Fact: Tin is completely incapable of rusting. That's why I gave him iron joints; the worst thing that can happen to tin is oxidization similar to when copper turns green._


	7. Tin Man II

"Good Morn-Ing Gentle-Men!" The Tin Man spoke, in a voice something between a hiss of steam and train on its tracks.

"It's afternoon."

"Don't distress the fellow, Holmes!" I scolded, stomping on my friend's instep.

"Wel-Come To The For-Est." The automaton bent at the waist in the manner of some terribly formal aristocrat. A high-pitched creaking accompanied the majority of the Tin Man's movement, though certain motions would cause a crack or click. I was never to learn much about the inner workings of the device, but I imagine that the sound was relative to which of the interior mechanisms were functioning.

"That was quite painful." My companion mentioned casually, seating himself on the edge of the wheelbarrow.

I was at a profound loss for words. A mechanical being, something living yet was not alive; constructed by the hand of man. The morality of such a thing was grave and monstrous. It felt at once that we were witnessing the shadow-coated imaginings of the penny dreadfuls brought to existence. It stilled my very soul to consider the ramifications of this nature of invention. All I could bring myself to do was stare, open jawed and wide eyed. Like a startled fish.

"Please Des-Ig-Nate Task Gentle-Men." The Tin Man creaked.

"Task, what task? What is he talking about?" I was surely panicking, and fear that it was evident by my demeanour.

"I suppose he wants us to give him a command…" Holmes stood and approached the machine.

"What's this gender business? It is not a _he_ it is an _it_!"

"Watson, you're being conspicuously negative in regards to the Tin Man. Ah, but perhaps I was right in my earlier assessment. Perhaps we have finally found the limit of your compassion. Here it is, my friend! The periphery of your extent to feel is this automaton!" Holmes jabbed.

I imagine that he was merely being playful, in the acerbic way that was his personality. Unfortunately, it had become a sensitive issue for me – for I did indeed feel that all kindnesses within my heart would end with this eerie contraption

"Don't be ridiculous! I've merely seen nothing like this horrible abomination. There isn't anything to felt towards it, certainly nothing dramatic…"

"Well. This is wholly unexpected." Holmes seemed deeply concerned by my aversion to the Tin Man.

"Please Des-Ig-Nate Task Gentle-Men," The Tin Man reiterated, "Chop-Ping. Plow-Ing. Har-Ves-Ting. Trans-Por-Tation of Goods."

All at once a flash of devilish excitement came over Holmes's steely eyes.

"I don't feel at all safe, Holmes!" I shouted over the clicking and puffing of the Tin Man. We were seated snugly in the wheelbarrow, Mr. Scarecrow between us and the mechanical man pulling us in the fashion of a Roman chariot or rickshaw.

"What's to feel unsafe about, Watson?" Holmes shouted back, for it was nearly impossible to be heard over the sheer volume of the contraption's sounds, "If he breaks down, we shall walk!"

I resigned myself to being a passenger on the unusual mode of transportation, but did not feel comfortable being party to it. Never would I have let Holmes even try such a thing, were it not for the increasing sharpness of my pains. Though I was reluctant to let Holmes know, the sensation was growing more and more intense with each passing moment. I was beginning to notice with great intensity not only the heat being radiated by the enormous sun, but it's near blinding brightness.

"Are you alright?" Holmes called.

"Perfectly!"

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_A/N: The Tin Man turned out to be an enormous section, so this chapter is the second portion of the last chapter. (Did that make sense?) Anyway, I know it__'s super short but be patient with me, I'm stalling! Ha ha ha!_

_I'm having troubles figuring out how to do the Cowardly Lion. I've got everything worked out but the bloody Lion... (Any and all bright ideas appreciated. Just PM me.)_

_And, Yes. You should all be terribly worried about Watson._


	8. Cowardly Lion

As we proceeded further and further into the gloom and deeply shaded forest, the rhythmic jostle of the Tin Man's steps became almost hypnotic. Though the setting itself was, notably, disquieting.

The trees were lush and verdant to the degree that they created only rare and broken beams of the obnoxious sunlight to twinkle down. A welcome relief. Nonetheless, the creeping shadows seemed to hide many things, and every now and again one would glimpse a movement not unlike that of a wild animal. I found myself both trying to see exactly what was moving just beyond the light, while at the same time distinctly wishing that I were blissfully oblivious - that I may not have noticed anything at all.

We slowed, as the puffing and clanking grew steadily less prompt. Until finally we came to a complete stop.

"Gentle-Men. Please Wind Le-Ver Mark-Ed Two." The Tin Man hissed in a sudden release of steam.

"Oh, alright!" Holmes shrugged and leapt from his seat, merry to be once more at work on the invention. I took the opportunity to briefly examine my symptoms, though could come to no decisive conclusion regarding the state of my health. I speculated that perhaps it was merely the great amount of stress put upon my intelligence. It also must have been quite some time since last I ate, or had a moment to myself. I relished the brief relaxation and shut my eyes.

Then, I heard a sound quite likely to set the blood to freezing. A low rumble, animal by all definitions and most unexpected. I opened my eyes to gaze upon an enormous lion.

"Ah… Yes… Well…" I stammered in the direction of the beast.

"This key is giving me one deuce of a time, Watson. It seems to be stuck. Have we still got that oil can?" Clearly, my friend had yet to notice the great big lion. Funny the times when one's highly praised powers of observation choose to give out.

"Holmes…" I began, and fear that my voice had risen to an unflatteringly high pitch.

"Frog in your throat?"

"Lion in my face, actually." I squeaked, trying desperately to disappear behind my own shoulders without the animal noticing.

"What are you on about li…" Here Holmes's voice dropped into a sudden silence. I presumed he had finally seen our guest.

"What do I do?" I whispered in his direction hoarsely.

"Is that lion wearing a little red bow in his mane?" Holmes sounded deeply offended. Though I had previously had no compulsion, I took a very detailed look at the beast and noticed that it was, indeed, wearing a bow. However, I felt that this detail was in no way pressing.

"Holmes! It is going to kill me! Please say something helpful!"

"Don't be silly, Watson. It is not going to kill you. Now then, do we still have that oil can?" He diligently searched the front of the wheelbarrow until he found what he needed beneath our scarecrow.

The lion growled at me once more, licking its teeth menacingly.

"It is going to eat me! Holmes!"

"You are being ridiculous – absolutely ridiculous! Here, tend to our Tin Man and I shall show you once and for all that there is absolutely nothing to be feared from this poor creature!" Holmes sighed indignantly; thrusting the oil can against my chest.

He strode purposefully to stand next to the lion, where he at once began to pet the animal as one would a common household cat.

"There, you see. Nothing at all to be afraid of. As harmless as a kitten." He shrugged. The lion sat down beside him, lolling its head sleepily; every now and then its massive pink tongue making a swipe over its teeth.

"Shocking, sir! Absolutely shocking!" I marveled, dropping the can with a clank. At once I stood and leaned towards the massive lion to better inspect it.

"Our friend here is not typical of his species. Note his colour – a rather pale blonde in place of the usual tawny tones that mark his brothers. This indicates at once that he is an infamous Timbavati white lion, of the Kruger subspecies to be more precise. _Panthera leo Krugeri_ in the scientific."

"But how does any of this relate to our not being eaten?"

"White lions are difficult to come by, as they exist only due to a flaw in the bloodline which causes leucism. The reduction of pigment in the creature's fur. As we are now quite certain that we have found ourselves in a manufactured paradise, and lions find themselves completely separate of temperate forest in the wild, it becomes clear to assume that this creature has been brought here on Ozma's whim.

"One imagines immediately that specialized breeding has occurred, the side effects of which are hind-limb paralysis and a disease of the heart. Coupled with the animal's obvious domestication and the fact that it sat still long enough for someone to put this ludicrous bow atop its head, it was barely a matter of any mental stretch to know that he was hopelessly pusillanimous."

"Oh I see! It all makes such sense now!"

I was lying.

"He has not the courage to pounce an ant, Watson. It is not in him." Holmes neatly wrapped up his speech and resumed his attempt to restart the Tin Man.

In the peaceful moment that came after, I took it upon myself to observe the lion. He still lay relaxed, breathing with some noticeable effort and looking about himself with what was almost a sadness glazed over the pinhole pupils of its honey eyes. I thought then what a terrible life the creature must have had, and began to look upon the decoration in his mane with the same revolution one would observe any injustice with.

"Got it!" Holmes called, and the clicks and creaks of the Tin Man could be heard once more. I knew at once that our unusual trolley was once more on the move, but could not break my gaze from the melancholy countenance of the lion.

"Watson! I don't think he's going to wait!" Holmes laughed, as the Tin Man chugged onward like the simple machine he was.

I looked at my friend, and knew at once that he understood the gravity of emotion that had overtaken me.

"We cannot take him with us, for there is no place for him that is not here. But, perhaps – perhaps we can do some small thing for him." Holmes placed a hand upon my shoulder as I dropped to my knees and began, very gently, to remove the bow.

"Shall that give him some higher level of confidence?" I mused, as the majestic animal retreated amidst the trees.

"Yes. I daresay it will." Holmes added quietly.

"There's a sort of heroism to it, I think…" I began as we started strolling to catch up with the Tin Man, who despite not going very fast had an excellent determination for going.

"Whatever do you mean, Watson?"

"I suppose I mean that it takes great amount of courage to be something like that lion. Though, I doubt that he himself will ever understand what any such nonsense is." I explained quickly, and we sped up to jump on the back of the wheelbarrow, landing rather gracelessly.

"Look on the bright side – our list of contentions grows ever longer! When we reach the wizard he'll go mad from the sheer number of complaints we'll lodge!"

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_A/N: Hooray! I've broken my Seventh Chapter curse! This is the first story I've ever written beyond a point of seven chapters! I'm very, very pleased with myself and whole-heartedly admit that I wouldn't have been able to do it without the thoughtful support of my reviewers._

_I deeply appreciate all the kind things everyone has said. It means a great deal to me, as I've always been painfully shy about my writing and__ usually __harbour__ serious doubts concerning both my imagination and skill as an author._

_You're all very kind, and your encouragement is the sugar in my tea. If there's anything you would like to know or discuss I'm more than here for all of you._

_(This is not to say that if you have any criticisms you should hold back. Let me know where I screw up so that I can fix it, right?!)_


	9. Apple Trees

"Watson, I am truly intrigued!" Holmes called over the huff and puff of the automaton. I found it a highly unusual time for him to begin any sort of in-depth discussion, but such was the way of my friend. Sherlock Holmes was never one to let life slow him down.

"You'll have to speak up! The Tin Man is so blasted loud!" I called back, purposefully excluding the information regarding the loud ringing in my head.

"I said that I am intrigued! This is a problem quite unlike anything we have experienced before, and it fascinates me so!" Holmes seemed almost joyous. He was always one to revel in the intricacies of motive and the small details of any case, particularly when they fit in such a manner as to each be a thread in the larger web. I could tell at once that it was this style of puzzle that he believed us to be faced with now.

"It's not surprising that you feel this way! Rare are the days that we find ourselves in a fairy kingdom, traveling with your doppelganger scarecrow in a wheelbarrow-come-rickshaw being pulled by a metal man who runs on steam!" I chuckled.

"Sorry, Watson, I couldn't hear a word after 'rare'! What did you say?"

"Never mind!"

"Have you noticed," he continued on, completely oblivious to the difficulties of having a conversation under these circumstances, "that each tiny obstruction, each stop on our journey to the Emerald City has been a marked and clear moral quandary?"

"I'm not sure I follow!" I admitted.

"The first instance we faced ourselves with, for example! A dead body casually flung in an utterly terrible hiding place! Then a young woman with clear mental deficiencies, giving us advice on how to proceed! Our reactions to these things become crucial in the unfolding of the events around us! Not only are we called upon to examine the situations that have passed – each detail already present to our observations should we know where to look – but we must also strive to understand the role that you and I are playing! Actors on the stage, never merely the audience for whom the plot unfolds!" Holmes elaborated.

"But, you and I have been entwined in the goings-on of many cases! Why, mentioning solely the events surrounding Irene Adler! At once you made yourself part of the action…" I added, noting that the scenery was changing from the dense woods into something more of an orchard. The trees were quite lovely, many in sweetly floral bloom and a few even bearing fruit.

"Oh, indeed! It was not my intention to suggest that we had never been personally involved before! Merely that, in this particular set of circumstances, choice seems to be one of the thematic obsessions of whoever is behind all of this!"

Here the conversation was interrupted by a sudden jolt as the Tin Man broke down completely. It had been its habit thus far to inform us of any pending difficulties within his mechanisms, and so it was quite surprising when it simply ceased to work. The unexpected nature of the stop had caused the both us of to suddenly lurch forward, grabbing the sides of the wheelbarrow for support. The scarecrow was thrown almost completely from the vehicle.

"What's wrong? Has he given up?" I enquired dizzily, for the unpleasant joggle had caused my already aggrieved head to spin.

"I am entirely confounded. Perhaps he is out of steam." Holmes shrugged, sitting the scarecrow back upright and placing the deerstalker back on its head. There was a vague and quiet narcissism that lurked in him at times. It would have not surprised me in least if he had suddenly announced that upon our leaving Oz, I was to vacate our rooms at Baker Street so that the scarecrow might use my bed.

"The mystery of the Tin Man will not go unsolved!" Holmes once more rolled his sleeves to his elbows and began examining the automaton.

"The game is afoot!" I cheered in good-natured sarcasm, and began to somewhat greedily consider the fruit on the trees.

"As I was saying about choices, though, Watson…"

"Oh yes! Do go on, Holmes."

"Considering that the motive of the scenarios laid out for us seems to revolve around our own decisions, it is extremely ironic that it was in no way our choice to be here. Don't you agree?"

"Are you so certain that it revolves so tidily around our own choices? Perhaps we're only being made to think we have decided things when Ozma – or whoever turns out to be behind this – has made the decisions for us." I offered my own suggestion, gazing hungrily at the shiny, red apples that hung off of the branches of the nearest trees.

"I disagree with you there, Watson." Holmes shook his head as he approached me, and looked at my expression with some amusement.

He followed my line of sight to the apples and smiled.

"Oh! I thought perhaps Miss Glinda had returned!" He jibed.

"Do you suppose they're edible? I wouldn't dare have tried those horrid sweets, but I must say – the apples tempt me."

"I suppose it's the nature of apples to tempt. The opinion of my intellect is to avoid the fruit completely. The opinion of my stomach is to eat all of the fruit. I suggest listening to my brain." Holmes concluded, though he could take his eyes away from the trees no more than I.

"Perhaps we should find a compromise between these two aspects of your psyche. Perhaps the best course of action would be to merely remove a single apple and examine it – with some scrutiny." It is imperative to realize that many hours had passed since we had arrived in Oz, and many hours before that since we had last eaten.

"I suppose it is well within the expectations of our actions to thoroughly consider the apples. They may contain some imperative clue regarding the murderer of the Witch, or our reason for being here!" We were clearly reaching for excuses.

Tentatively, I stepped forward as though I was Jason reaching for the Golden Fleece. Just as I was taking the step that would allow me to reach up and pick one of the juicy treats from its bough, I felt a tug beneath the weight of my shoe. It was a line of some nearly invisible material, the sole duty of which was to trigger a most unusual alarm system.

The fruit which appeared ripe began to be catapulted from the trees in the direction of the road. It became immediately apparent that it was not actual produce of any variety, for it shattered upon contact with ground. The apples were all made of glass.

We shouted varying curses as the orbs shattered around us, one very nearly coming into direct contact with my head. Holmes lifted the Tin Man's hands from the handles of the wheelbarrow as I continued to dodge the barrage.

"What are you doing!" I exclaimed, as a particularly lethal looking banana whizzed by.

"Come on!" Holmes called over the crashes of breaking glass. We each took a handle of the wheelbarrow and gave ourselves a running start. We pushed the trolley to a peek velocity until we were at the edge of the orchard, where the Saffron Path began a straight downhill direction into a beautiful red field of flowers. Once we had gained enough momentum, we leapt into our places within the wide wooden bucket and began a speedy descent away from the vicious trees.

"Now that's a new take on bitter fruit!" I laughed, as we rocketed along the vibrant path into the gardens.

"This is exactly the reason that we should always, always listen to my brain. It's never wrong!" Holmes's voice was far away, as if I had suddenly been submerged in a warm sea. All sights and sounds had the distortion of water.

I saw at once the blur of red that coloured the far-stretching blanket of poppies, though I could make out no single bloom.

The pain in my leg subsided all at once, in the manner of a patient given a narcotic to achieve analgesia.

My eyelids grew heavy, and an inky blackness overtook the distant rainbow.

"Watson! Watson!" Holmes was shouting as his voice faded into a deep and rich silence.

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_A/N: I fight writer's block, I fight power-outages and computer troubles, I heartily battle the curse of shyness – but I really think this cold is going to kill me! _

_Anyway, I like the trees that throw apples in The Wizard of Oz and decided to mix them in. Even if it's in the wrong spot. ;)_


	10. Poppy Field

_A/N: And if there's a lesson to be learned by this typically prompt update, it's that if you rush me you will get exactly what you want._

_Anyway, I'm still struggling with writer's block but I'm getting through. My brain looks like a round of Tetris just before game over; I persevered to bring you this chapter. You'll have to be totally honest, because if the quality is starting to suffer I'll want to know._

_Oh! And this is probably my least funny chapter ever. It carries the story forward, and I didn't want to aimlessly pad it with unnatural joke placement_

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There are times when the body simply says 'Sleep' and we must obey.

It came as a great release to let the senses shut off. I drank in the stillness and the darkness until – as though a sudden electric shock hit me – I was awake. My eyes met immediately with the cerulean sky and its fluffy white clouds.

"You alarmed me." Holmes said, and I sat up slowly to look at him.

He was standing some feet away, leaning against our multi-use wheelbarrow with one of his spidery legs crossed over the other. It was immediately noticeable that his sharp features were overtaken by an uncommon bagginess – his mouth tired, and his eyes pensive. The whole of his expression seemed to match something more of tragedies than a mere fainting spell.

Behind him, the glorious spectacle of the Emerald City shone. It was so near that it startled me. I looked over my shoulder and noticed that the poppy field we had only just entered was some considerable distance behind us. I noticed as well that my hair and collar were both drenched with water. My mind raced to piece together what little information there was, but though spending time with Holmes had improved my skills at detection, my mind was alarmingly blank. Sluggish even. I slowly turned to look once more upon my friend and his deceivingly casual pose.

"I suppose I must've fallen to heat-stroke…" The inside of my lips felt dry and chalky. As if I had not used them for a thousand years.

"I'm afraid not, old fellow." Holmes shook his head. His voice was languid and slow and his words seemed to be very precisely chosen. He was playing at being cavalier, and working to remain evasive. Something quite serious had happened.

"Holmes…" I began, intently searching for the answer in our surroundings. I had been laid upon the scarecrow's bundled up jacket, which was also quite damp.

"Watson, I will not tell you. It will only serve to trouble you further, and you require further rest." He motioned his arms to indicate that he would not indulge any further discussion.

"Come on, now! You must tell me if something has happened, Holmes! How long have I been unconscious?"

"Peacefully? For no more than two hours." He answered slyly and helped me to stand. I would have no secrets in the matter of my health; one would not even need to be a physician to realize some severe calamity had befallen my person.

"And was there a period of unconsciousness that was not peaceful? How long did it last?" I demanded. Holmes merely scoped up the jacket and began to redress the scarecrow.

"Watson, you best seat yourself next to our friend. I shall pull the wheelbarrow." He nodded decisively.

"Why? The Emerald City is a very short distance away, and I feel more than capable of walking."

"There is a change of plans. We must retrieve an item from a castle in the region known as Winkie Country in order to enter the Emerald City." Holmes explained. I felt entirely left out, and it was quite cruel of him to be excluding such large portions of information.

"Now then, Holmes!" I stated rather firmly, and felt the flush of anger upon my cheeks. He turned to look at me, icy and impassive.

"Don't strain yourself, Watson…"

"I demand to know what has gone on these past few hours!" I bellowed, and was immediately ashamed of myself. I knew full well that Holmes only restricted the flow of information if it was of critical importance, but I felt somehow vulnerable to not know my own symptoms. To be a doctor completely unaware of the nature of my own malady.

"Very well," Holmes sighed, and sat upon the edge of the cart with his steely eyes seeming to observe a new aspect of myself. Many times his gaze had fallen upon me to observe some small detail – mud on my shoe, scratches on my buttons – this time it was changed. He was observing my whole person with some scrutiny. In fact, he was trying to remain completely aware of my physical well being, but at the time the action seemed almost callous.

"Watson, at some point this morning you were exposed to a poison. It is my understanding that it was steadily affecting you for the duration of the day, however only slightly. Without any tests to be done there is no way to be certain, but I shall declare daturine as the most likely culprit." He explained rapidly, his gaze never diverting from my face.

"Good lord! Daturine! But how on earth did it…" I was aghast. Surely it accounted for all of my discomfort. The sensitivity to heat and light, the heightening of the pain in my leg due to the muscular antagonism associated with that toxin.

"Highly concentrated, Watson. It entered your bloodstream transdermally." He paused and looked downward. I could see at once how the episode had worried Holmes, and felt so wretched for having throttled the information out of him. Still, I knew there was to be more.

"Transdermally? But how on earth would it have been able to keep contact with the skin long enough to hold its effects? It must've been leeching in very slowly." I puzzled over this, and managed to deduce that the poison must have been applied to my head, or perhaps the back of my neck. It was the logical explanation for why Holmes had seen fit to douse me with water.

"It had been left on your check through means of a viscous, colourless gel. Because of the nature of this gel, the poison worked subtly and alone would not have killed. It was when we entered the poppy field that the real danger occurred.

"The poppies were releasing a gaseous opiod – harmless to most, creating no more than a brief sensation of dizziness. But, coupled dangerously with the daturine already in contact with your system, the result was potentially deadly. As you most likely know, the side effect from the combination of daturine with any opiod is memory loss. I am greatly relived that I acted quickly enough to prevent this."

"What did you do?" I asked, as the details of his story hit me with their full force.

"I immediately got you as far from the poppies as I could, in order to prevent you from breathing in so much of narcotic that it would be irreparable. Once we were here, I induced vomiting."

"Thank you."

"It was unpleasant. Afterwards I examined your skin and located the placement of the gel. I promptly removed as much of it as I could with my handkerchief, but it was apparent that I would need to thoroughly wash your face. Locating water was the most difficult aspect of the entire ordeal. I was forced to hastily run back in the direction of the orchard to retrieve the water kept within the Tin Man's chest." Here I noticed the large metal cylinder that sat next to the Scarecrow.

"You mean…"

"I was forced to dismantle the Tin Man. It was something of a triviality in the moment, but now there is a great sorrow to it. Still, I would destroy him every time to save your life, Watson." Holmes admitted, and I knew it was true. So deep was our friendship.

I approached the mechanism that sat in our wheelbarrow and felt a strange sense of loss. For, in as much as the lion had been courageous, the Tin Man had been somewhat feeling. I remember the sense of delight Holmes had taken from his discovery, the simplicity of his purpose when he announced his functions.

Can such things made by the hands of man have souls? If so, then surely our Tin Man did. However, though there was a distinct air of death about it, there was also a strangeness. Could he be mended? If not, and he had earned himself the soul of which I spoke, where was that soul now obliterated? Once more, the moral dilemma of the automaton presented itself, and once more I was unable to meet its challenge.

"Come along, Watson. I'll tow you to the Witch's Castle." Holmes said with a note of remorse in his voice.

"No, we'll both walk to this place. It was the Tin Man's job to pull the wheelbarrow." I decided, and retrieve the Ruby Walking Stick from the wooden bucket.

"That's very honourable of you, Watson, but how I am supposed to carry my scarecrow all the way to Winkie Country without our wheelbarrow?"

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_A/N: There's no such poison as Daturine. I bastardized the name from one of Doyle's Professor Challenger stories. I tried to find poisons that had the effects I wanted, but to no avail. Many transdermal poisons counteract badly with opiods, even resulting in the permanent brain damage Holmes refers to. It just so happens that all of those poisons cause delirium and paralysis._


	11. The Emerald Gates

We left the scarecrow, despite the fact that Holmes was reluctant to do it. His straw double had become an extension of our journey, and it was my impression that he regarded it as a symbol. I, too, had become quite accustomed to having it around – the thing had proved so blasted useful. Nonetheless, I simply would not hear of further use of the wheelbarrow, and it would have been foolish to attempt to carry the scarecrow with us always.

As all roads lead to Rome, all Saffron Paths lead to the Emerald City. Holmes explained to me that there were four sections to Oz – Munchkinland, Winkie Country, Gillikan and Quadling Country. Each region was denoted by a specific colour, and had its own yellow road leading from its major structure to the Emerald City.

"Where on earth did you learn all of that?" I enquired of him after his off-handed explanation. I resisted the urge to scold Holmes for behaving as if I should've been previously aware of such geographic trivialities.

It was somewhat in his nature to always believe that others should know exactly what he knew; even if it had only been ten minutes since he'd learned it.

"I hope you do not think ill of me, but there was a long period of time during which you were unconscious and I had nothing to do but wait." Holmes began tentatively.

"I assure you, I will feel no offense if you inform me that you resumed investigations while I was incapacitated. I will, however, be offended if it turns out that you have drawn a monocle on me."

"No, there's no monocle. I could only ever achieve the correct appearance of the curly little moustaches, and that would be entirely redundant. I did indeed resume investigations, though.

"I found myself buzzing with nervous energy, and had been habitually pacing. At a certain point, I found that I had paced myself all the way to the walls of the city. These gates are strange, but by no means stranger than anything else we have seen in Oz. They are tall and made entirely of some smooth green substance; rest assured I checked to see if there was any chance of the city being actually constructed from Emeralds."

"And it's not?"

"Actually, part of it is. There is the word 'Oz' spelled out across the front of the gates – all emeralds."

"Good lord! Would it be wrong to nick one?"

"Yes, very. However, I was quite mesmerized and found myself wondering if it would not be an apropos revenge to take all of their gemstones. We all falter." He shrugged.

"You didn't…"

"No! Of course not! I only thought about it! At the time, I didn't know if you were going to survive, or even if you would retain your mind. Spite compelled the fancy, and the fancy has passed." There was an awkward pause.

"They were up too high." I decided aloud.

"Watson, I do not wish to discuss this anymore. The emeralds remain in their proper place and my conscience remains clean."

"They _were_ up too high!"

"Look, do you want to know what I found in the blasted gatehouse or not?" Holmes began to chuckle faintly at the direction our conversation had taken. It was comforting to think the formality would not immediately weigh down every near-death situation.

"Yes. I would like to know what has prompted your sudden and frequent use of the word 'Winkie'. It is strangely unnatural to hear you say it."

"There's nothing unnatural about how I pronounce Winkie," it sounded as if he had eaten raw octopus every time, "it is a word like no other. A word I first spotted upon entering the gatehouse.

"There are two small towers next to the jewel-encrusted entryway; one merely for the purposes of architectural symmetry, the other supposedly for someone to staff in order to allow access to the city. Immediately, I noticed that the side door leading into this tower was in the Dutch style, where the top portion opens separately. This half had been left ajar, so I was able to enter the structure merely be vaulting myself over the lower half of the door."

"Go on."

"Inside was a table covered in maps, technical manuals and notes. There were also two small oval windows; one which overlooked the area in front of the gates, and another that gave a view of what lay behind those gates. The Emerald City, Watson. It found me vaguely unimpressed. Everything was shiny and green, and there were no citizens or any sign of activity. Merely the nauseatingly green courtyard leading towards a monolithic structure where we may be able to find Ozma.

"I am now without any uncertainty that it is Rudiger Ozma whom we are dealing with – his name appeared on several of the papers I discovered in the gatehouse. However, I have no idea what the extent of his involvement may be. I also found these maps and a note of some relevance." here Holmes drew a handful of folded documents from the back pocket of his trousers, for he had left his jacket in the cornfield and had spent the majority of the day in his shirtsleeves.

He handed me the note.

'G. – Have taken the gate keys to Winkie Country Castle. Would like a word with Mr. Holmes re: stolen ruby.'

It was unsigned, but the author was clearly female. Or perhaps a man who liked very curly handwriting.

"It would benefit us to have a word with someone around here who does not advocate murder – be it of Witches or Watsons." Holmes sighed, returning the maps and notes to his pocket.

I looked at the Ruby Walking Stick and considered it thoroughly.

"Do you suppose that it really does have everything to do with this?"

"Worse things have happened for less, Watson. However I will say that it probably does not revolve solely around that ruby. Most likely there are several aspects to the motives of the crimes of Oz – and I intend to search until we know…" Holmes was brutally interrupted as what appeared to be a small winged monkey collided with his chest. There was a painful sounding thwack, as Holmes was knocked onto his back.

It really did seem to be a pygmy marmoset with wings, and I would have began writing frantic letters to Mr. Darwin had I not seen the golden key protruding from the creature's back. It was clockwork.

There was a strange ticking noise emanating from toy-like object, and it took off to the air once more. It circled and dove, this time towards me.

Holmes's quick reflexes were done justice as he leapt from the ground and pulled himself in front of me just in time to take another monkey to the chest. He did this gallantly, and remained upright and poised – due largely to the fact that he now knew what to expect of the device. The monkey bounced backwards off of him and exploded upon contact with the ground, spitting flames and gears and the little head rolled away.

"That was objectionable." Holmes coughed, and noticed that the machine had left an oily smudge on the front of his clothes.

"Are you alright?"

"Oh yes. But I daresay that monkey weighed more than it looked to." He knelt beside the smoldering cogs to examine them.

Next, a strange sound like the inside of a clock shop. He and I turned to observe a sky dark with monkeys as it would be crows – no less than a hundred of the mechanical marmosets.

"Damn." Holmes and I noted in unison.

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_A/N: Well, now that I've written the first part of the monkeys I can die happy. I hope you like them! As we draw nearer the end, I find myself desperately hoping that my symbolism and twists will live up to everybody's expectations._

_And, like usual, thanks to all of my brilliant reviewers! You guys don't miss a beat!_

_(But I've still got some surprises up my sleeves, so don't get too comfortable!)_


	12. Flying Monkeys

_A/N: __Sheesh. Looks like a girl can't take a break anymore – you know some people only update every week... _;)

_Well, since everybody's being good I guess we can get cracking. _

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Holmes and I ran as quickly as our legs would carry us through the golden wheat fields of Winkie Country. Behind us, the ominous cloud of small clockwork monkeys filled the sky and gave chase with a frenzy of ticks. This ticking was not altogether or particularly rhythmic, and it gave the impression of an enormous swarm of bees or locusts. It was a terrifying sensation.

Every now and then, one of the monkeys would make a swooping dive and target either myself or Holmes. We were only saved from being hit by our ability to recognize the menacing sound of one drawing nearer. Then it was a quick jump – either onto our stomachs or into the stalks of wheat – causing the monkey's calculated trajectory to be incorrect, resulting in a small fiery explosion.

It was unfortunate that Holmes and I had not the time to examine our surroundings any closer, for Winkie Country was proving to be a fascinating region. The further in one traveled, the closer to nightfall one got. When I turned to look over my shoulder at the flock of flying monkeys, I could see that the sun burned as bright as ever in the direction of the Emerald City. Daytime was not a chronological matter in Oz, it was geographical.

"Watson! Look!" Holmes called over the drone of mechanical wings. He was pointing to a stone tower of the Gothic style. Behind it, a handful of stars twinkled in an inky midnight sky, and the windows of the structure glowed with an eerie and unnatural purple light. It was an immediate relief to be aware of our destination, even if it was something so macabre in appearance.

I meant to comment, but was rudely distracted as one of the monkeys exploded to my left. Instead of responding, I kept running.

The frequency with which the monkeys chose to destroy themselves proved handy, as it thinned their ranks and made the chase less pressing as we neared the great stone structure. Though, it was a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire, for the sinister tower grew only more sinister as we drew closer.

The ground changed from the soft dirt paths of the now-gone wheat fields to a hard and smooth stone. It slammed against my feet and I hasted along it, Holmes somewhere behind me.

"Alright?" I called over my shoulder to make certain he was keeping up.

"Who on earth is alright when exploding marmosets are chasing them? It's inhuman to be alright in this situation!"

I took that as a yes.

"How are you?" He called forward after another explosion.

"You know, I think we should all start recommending brisk sprints to the recently poisoned. Does wonders for the heart rate!"

This too was meant as a yes, though the sarcasm was genuine. My constitution had not yet returned to the point where fleeing for my life was advisable. (Though I could think of no particular time where 'flee for you life' is the sort of advice one would want to hear.)

We came to the large wooden doors of the tower, and slipped inside as hastily as we could. It took the both of us to shut the heavy door behind us, and we could hear thunderous booms as the last of the flying monkeys collided with the door.

Though a distinct wave of relief washed over us, it was interrupted by a brief glance of our new environs. Dark and strange, the light emanating from purple glass windows was actually emanating from the windows. That is to say, there was a hollowed out section between two panels of glass which housed incandescent lamps – therefore, the windows themselves were the only source of light.

Holmes immediately made his way over to examine the technology.

"I could live a thousand years in this horrible fairy-land, Watson, and never cease to marvel at the sheer genius it contains. I wonder what manner of battery this is running on…" He mused, and began to explore the possibility of unfastening one of the glass rectangles.

I began to observe the rest of the tower's large foyer; a peppermint swirl of black and dark purple on the floor, large cobwebs placed in the corners, a wrought iron staircase that wrapped around a tall black column. It all held the necessary atmosphere of the frightening or darkly supernatural – though it also held the impression that it was the most manufactured location we had yet passed through.

"Where do you imagine we will find this person? Or the keys to the Emerald City?" I asked Holmes, who was still trying to get a better look at the light bulbs.

"Probably upstairs." He noted, taking his attention away from the window.

"Are you nervous?" I asked him because I was nervous.

"Curious, mostly," Holmes said, as we began to make our slow and echoing walk along the massive empty space of the room, "I feel as though I am on the very edge of understanding. Mere footsteps from my conclusion; the information that will fill these footsteps is intriguing. What will this person be? What will they offer? Another small puzzle to fit into our labyrinth of mystery."

As we made our way up the stairs, they creaked enormously. We made our way along the narrow halls that lead into the second level, until we found several locked doors and another staircase.

Up and up we went, drawn ever and always forward by the promise of conclusion.

When finally we reached the top level, my chest was pounding with anticipation, delight and fear. There were so many possibilities behind the open door – so many answers, so many resolutions.

Unfortunately, neither Holmes nor I was expecting to find what actually lay behind that door.

Another dead Witch.


	13. A Very Wicked Witch

"This is getting downright ridiculous." I noted incredulously as Holmes inspected the new corpse.

She, as the first victim, was dressed in the regalia of the witches of folklore – down to the greenish tint to the skin. Although the paste applied to the skin to create the colouration seemed to be water soluble. The woman, having been drowned, appeared a lighter shade of jade than her sister. One could tell immediately that Miss Glinda had at least been truthful about the relation of the two witches; the only notable difference between this witch and the last was in the shape and structure of the nose and placement of the wart.

"It's terrible, Watson. But I must know what she wished to tell us." Holmes placed his hands in his back pockets and took in the details of the room.

We had found the body partially submerged in an ornate stone fountain, her hair tangled over her eyes and face, her mouth wide open beneath the surface of the water. I had been shocked and repulsed by this scene, and was instantly enraged by the notion that Oz had claimed another life.

"It's tiring me out, Holmes." I muttered, taking a brief medical inspection of the body. Cause of death was undoubtedly forcible submersion by another party; there were bruises on the wrists, and all of the outward signs of hypoxia and acidosis leading to cardiac arrest.

"Watson!" Holmes declared sharply.

"Well, I wasn't being disrespectful! I meant it's emotionally draining to have to deal with all of this…" I defended myself, but noticed as I turned around that he had not been speaking in regards to my comment. He had found a small secret panel behind one of the avant-garde paintings on the wall.

"What's in there, Holmes?"

I was astonished as my companion turned to face me, holding in his hand an exact replica of the cabochon ruby that rested atop the walking stick.

"What on earth does it mean?" I asked. There was no reply. Holmes's eyes narrowed at the sight of something just beyond my shoulder. Before I could turn to look, a familiar voice said:

"Turn around very slowly, Doctor."

I followed the command, and was met by the barrel of my own revolver and the glittering eyes of Miss Glinda.

"Mr. Holmes, if you would be so kind as to hand me that stone." She requested; taking a step towards Holmes, the revolver remaining locked on me. He did as she asked.

The change in Miss Glinda since last we encountered her was overwhelming. Gone the sing-song tone of voice, the delicate charm, the eccentric style of dress. Before us stood what could have been a different woman entirely. She had spoken in low, callous tones; her expression was one of haughty disdain and cool logic; her dress had the sleek sleeves and harsh lines of the American upper society, and her red hair was tucked beneath a veiled black hat.

"Now for the walking stick, Dr. Watson, or I'll shoot your dearest friend with your trusty weapon."

"You sense of irony never fails to impress, Miss Glinda," Holmes said as I handed over the second ruby, "I was particularly fond of the scarecrow."

"Childish, but once I had the idea in my head I found it irresistible. I never would have dreamed you'd attach yourself to it so." Miss Glinda shrugged, pocketing one ruby.

Holmes seemed to be preparing himself to lean against the nearby windowsill, and our assailant took her opportunity to detach the ruby from the walking stick. She was mislead though, for as soon as she readjusted herself to accommodate the use of both her hands, she rendered the revolver powerless. Holmes flung himself forward from the window and disarmed her immediately; taking the gun from her, and pulling her hands around behind her back.

"How wretched of you! I'm just a delicate lady!" Miss Glinda complained.

"Oh! Delicate my foot!" Holmes barked a sarcastic laugh, "Here, Watson, come get your revolver. Keep it on Miss Glinda – there are quite a few questions to be answered."

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A/N: Whoops. Looks like another short chapter – sorry!


	14. Miss Glinda Speaks

"We will begin with the beginning, as is the tradition of dénouement interrogations. I'll start." Holmes motioned for Miss Glinda to take a seat in a purple velvet chair in the corner of the room. I kept my revolver locked on her, though somewhat half-heartedly. One normally didn't have too much to worry about until the end of Holmes's speeches – where the accusations started to roll around.

"Watson and I were drawn to Brighton because my attention had been caught by a series of reports on the unusual weather occurrences. But where did these reports come from? Various publications and telegrams from the weather office had been stuffed into large envelopes and delivered to our Baker Street address every morning shortly after breakfast…"

"Oh!" I said, suddenly correcting an earlier assumption that Holmes had subscribed to a magazine of questionable character.

"I knew at once that someone was trying to get me to Brighton, and my curiosity was piqued. That someone was you, Miss Glinda."

"You're absolutely right, Mr. Holmes. I brought you to Brighton so that I might bring you to Oz," Miss Glinda said, removing her black lace gloves, "The weather was something I knew would fascinate you, and I decided to be obvious about things and let you know that I wanted you here."

"The second point was the house of Auntie Em. Once more this was you, though far more directly. You disguised yourself as the old woman and waited for me to approach the house; perhaps more fortunate than you had hoped in catching both Watson and I in the unexpected storm."

"Both fortunate and misfortunate," She explained, "The storm swept you up several days before I had intended. There were many things I had to move quickly on, including compensating for the presence of Doctor Watson. Oh, I knew well enough that he was bound to you like a cairn terrier, but I had hoped to separate him from our games. It would have been simpler for me."

"Of course! This explains the ramshackle assembly of the false house! You had expected more time to prepare, and yet one wonders how long Oz has been here…"

"Oz is older than I am. My grandfather, Rudiger Ozma, began construction on a fairy kingdom after the death of his wife in childbirth. He was a man devoted to invention and the progress of modern civilization, but as tragedy after tragedy fell upon his life, he grew dependant of the answers of magic in place of the answers of science.

"He drew up plans for marvelous land of sunshine and butterflies, where nothing evil would ever touch and things could be saved and savoured. It consumed him and took his attentions away from the rearing of his only child – my father. Father rebelled against all notions of purity and goodness when he was a young man, seeking instead the rich tapestry of temptation and… more temptation. I don't really know what he was seeking, actually. But he knew how to have a good time."

"I was aware that Ozma had a son, from the highly publicized nature of your father's death, but I had never heard of him having a granddaughter." Holmes seemed intrigued. And quite rightly, the story promised to be unlike any we had heard outside of the realms of fiction.

"If you aware of the dubious circumstances surrounding my father's death, then it will not surprise you to learn that he lived all of his short life the same recklessness and stupidity. I was born before either my father or mother reached the age of twenty – my mother, a young woman of society, was sequestered and chose to deny my existence altogether. Grandfather took me in, though he struggled to divide his attentions between the development of Oz and the rearing of another child."

"I suppose, though, that Ozma must've slowed the development of his bizarre projects to care for you properly." I said, becoming more and more engaged by the tale.

"To an extent. Many of my early years were spent frolicking in half-finished glass gardens, and as I grew older I learned the finer details of Grandfather's earlier work. I read every paper he had ever written, plucked every idea from his mind and set to work learning to surpass him as a figure of Science."

"But you're a girl."

"Thank you, Doctor; I'm sure nobody else noticed that one." Miss Glinda sneered.

"Well, it doesn't bother me in the slightest," I clarified, "it's just uncommon for a woman to be… scientific."

"I agree with Watson. You may be very keen at invention and the laying of traps, but there is such an overly-emotional fervor that prevents you from doing things properly. It is, perhaps, no real fault of yours – but I must say I don't think a boy scientist would have dressed up like a medieval sprite and sent us on a wild quest for nothing in particular." Holmes nodded.

"Nothing! You call the most flawless bloody ruby in the world bloody nothing!"

"Language, Miss Glinda!"

"Oh, you're both so very blind. When I was at finishing school in Geneva, I devised a method of creating synthetic rubies by melting a finely powdered substance of alumina using an oxyhydrogen flame, and crystallizing the melted droplets into a boule – or single crystal ingot. I sold these rubies through a local merchant of a foolishness so grand, that he advertised them as the finest fake stones. They were real by every sense, every inspection. No one would've have thought otherwise if he hadn't told them.

"It was a fine endeavor from the technical standpoint, and I was making excellent headway with my electrical projects. Grandfather was calling upon me to send him solutions to problems in the construction of Oz, and he had hired a team of little people to manage construction and maintenance in his subterranean kingdom…"

"Ah-ha! So we _are_ underground!" Holmes snapped his fingers triumphantly.

"Yes. All of this is a compound constructed beneath an unmapped island in the North Atlantic Ocean. We're near to Ireland. The climate, light, sounds, smells, everything is controlled and structured. The main base of operations is the Emerald City, but the individual sectors have control towers. Like this one." She indicated the castle we currently found ourselves in, and stood up.

"There are all sorts of effects and tricks in this place, Mr. Holmes. I doubt I'll have time to explain them all you – though I'm sure you would appreciate them." Miss Glinda began moving in the manner of someone who was about to do something. The coy twisting of the head, the little reptilian smile. The girl was up to no good.

"Don't forget that Watson has his revolver on you, Miss Glinda." Holmes warned sternly. There was no messing about; I was willing to wound her if the situation called for it.

"I just thought I'd demonstrate this," Miss Glinda said innocently, pulling the top of her start scepter from beneath her belt, "An invention that, sadly, can be credited as Grandfather's and not mine."

And suddenly, an abrasive pink flash and a loud twinkling noise. Just a when she had first appeared.

When our eyes recovered, she was gone and both rubies with her.

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_A/N: I really hope nobody's disappointed – except for the disappointment you should be sharing with Holmes and Watson that they have to once more journey to the Emerald City and face Glinda once and for all._

_Anyway, I've been having trouble finding the time to write (it's always something with this story, isn't it?) and so am warning you fairly that it might be awhile until the next update. It might also be tomorrow. _

_Suspense and guessing are fun though, right?_

_Thanks for reading!_


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